


Payback

by hellkitty



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Frottage, PWP, Snowballing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-05
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-04-03 00:42:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She told him she'd get him back. </p>
<p>TMI PSA in the headnote. </p>
<p>Headnote.  *Head*note!  AHAHAHA *slaps table* *honks with laughter*  </p>
<p>Uh. Yeah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Payback

**Author's Note:**

> PSA #1 It's true. A man can be too big for a woman both in girth and length. And despite what your animuus might tell you with that whole 'cervical penetration' kink...that doesn't happen in real life. Anyone who's had an endometrial biopsy can tell you that it is the most AGONIZING and least SEXY experience in their lives. And that is just a teensy medical probe. 
> 
> However, that doesn't mean you still can't have fun. Just have to get, you know, creative. 
> 
> PSA #2 Apparently, according to Urban Dictionary, a lot of guys find snowballing to be degrading and humiliating and gross and somehow threateningly 'gay'. 
> 
> Which is totally weird because every guy I've been with has found it hotter than hell--half the time it's been something they suggested. 
> 
> Which leads me to the inevitable conclusion that apparently I fuck a better class of man than the type that hangs out on Urban Dictionary. 
> 
> And you should, too.
> 
> That is, if you're into fucking men in the first place. 
> 
> If not, erm, well...carry on, then.

She’d forgotten about her little promise/threat to Coma for a few weeks, maybe that kind of ‘forgetting’ you do when you don’t really want to deal with the aftermath of something. She and...him.  Yeah.

But they’d gone on a raid, again, and after a while every note his hands pulled from the strings seemed to tweak deep in her belly or, well, a little lower, and she was amped on adrenaline and her hand remembered the feel of his cock against it, and, well, to make a long and embarrassing rationalization short, here she was.

Like an animal in a lair, really, the smell of the place, of metal and musk.  She couldn't say much for the decor--guitars, everywhere, acoustics, electrics, propped against the walls, and long lines of metal strands--strings, hanging along one wall like a fringe, stirring lightly in the breeze that did little to move smell of the place.  

He was bent over one of the instruments, pulling a few discordant notes from it, as though plucking weeds from a garden, and then he straightened, and began playing, the hard crunches of one of the war riffs.

Well, she couldn't ask for a better opening, and that's what she was doing here, after all.  Not exactly going to stand around and wait for a flare.  

It was easy to go unheard over the notes he was wringing from the strings, but she didn't risk a slow approach, lunging in fast, like a predator, flashing one arm around his throat, pulling back just enough to, well, get his attention.  

The notes screeched to a stop, hands going limp, his body still, wary.   

"Told you I'd get you back," she whispered, and she felt the tension drain from his body, shoulders softening leaning back against her, almost seeking contact,.  "Don't get too comfortable," she warned. He had the advantage--and the gropy hands--last time.  Now, it was hers.  

"Get up."  She gave a tug with her arm, upward, butting against his jaw, and he rose, awkwardly, back tilted against her, reaching out blindly with the guitar.  Furiosa's robotic hand moved to take it. This wasn't about damaging his instruments--she knew Joe would make sure there was hell to pay for that. "Going to play nice?"

There was a pause, before he nodded, that she didn't quite trust, but he seemed pliable enough.  "Good," she said, and offered the inducement of a prize, ducking her head to lick along his ear.  Ahhhh, that was good, the way his whole body seemed to vibrate from the touch.  He'd behave, if he knew what was good for him.  

"Now strip."  He couldn't see, but she could, and she wanted to.  Besides...it was a public service. By the smell of them, it had probably been a little too long since he'd changed clothes.  

He tapped her arm, and she released him, stepping back, folding her arms under her breasts,  She supposed it was too much to expect for him to strip sexy.  Not really a thing to find reasonable in a blind man.  But he turned to face her, before stepping back, kicking off his shoes like a child, by stepping on the heels, and then peeling off the rest, revealing his pale skin.  

A benefit of being blind, she figured, was that he didn't seem particularly modest, standing naked in front of her, and she could already see the slow swelling of his arousal, just beginning to fight gravity.   That was a positive sign, one that caught the breath in her throat.

Oh, there were just too many options right now.  But she could sense him waiting, wondering.  "Nice," she said, and she had to push the word out. Let him know she was looking at him, imagining. Sure, the eyes were spooky, and the teeth were...really not good, she thought, but the rest of him?  Lean muscle, angular lines, and a kind of panther's coiled energy in the limbs.  

"Hands," she said, taking his wrists, and guiding his hands to the curve of her waist, before moving behind to undo the buckles of the leather brace.  He felt the sudden slackness in the leather, hands lifting enough to let it fall, his breath catching as his hands landed on bare skin.

“Go ahead,” she said, mostly curious, just to see what he’d do. And hoping, maybe a little bit, he’d try to go a little too far, and some of the dregs of adrenaline in her joints could find some work to do.  

He stepped closer, close enough for her to feel the heat of his body, smell the old sweat on his skin, and his hands traveled over her body, circling the waist, finding the lower hem of the band she covered her breasts with. His thumbs slipped under, just in the well of her spine, and she found herself shivering as he moved those hands, under the fabric, around in front of her ribs, fingertips spreading over the small swells of her breasts, the fingers questing and probing and curious.  He was close to her, face rapt, bending near as though he could smell her response. 

“Like that?” Her own voice was husky, her belly twitching as his fingers grazed over her nipples.  His fingers searched, trying to find the end, to peel the fabric from her.  She felt his breath along the top of her chest, hot and eager, felt the brush of his growing erection against her thigh.  

She bent closer, teeth finding his ear. “Asked you a question.”  

A distracted nod, yes, and a caught breath of triumph as he found the edge of her band, loosening the fabric around her breasts. Cheeky little bastard, taking liberties. Then again, he had last time, and the more she'd thought about it, the more she'd wondered exactly how calculated his 'misunderstanding' of her had been. She'd make sure he had no opening this time.   “Kneel,” she said, sharply, giving him just enough of a push away.

He dropped to his knees, as though his legs had crumbled, and, yeah, she honestly couldn’t ask for faster obedience, or the way he pressed his mouth against her, nuzzling along the seam of her thighs, hands wrapping around her hips, flirting with the curve of her ass.  She let him, just long enough to strip off her top, baring her breasts, then whipping a belt off her waist, looping it around his throat in a fast catch, not tight enough to do anything but get his attention, one of his hands hooking around it, the other clinging, almost desperately, to her hip.  Well, at least he was interested. And. Excited, by the look of his lap, his cock turgid and reddened.  And by the Mothers he was big.  

“Back,” she said, tugging at the longer lead of the belt. “Lie back.”  Because she wanted him on his back, underneath her, and as he flipped his feet out from under him, dropping onto his back, she stripped off her pants, tossing them aside before dropping to her own knees straddling his hips.  His cock was hard underneath her, a thick rod right between her thighs, and she rocked back over it, sliding herself against it, crushing it between her sex and his belly.  

His hands--because he either never learned or he liked pushing her buttons--groped forward, hooking on her hips, but, no, sorry, sweetheart, she was in charge here, and she snatched his wrists, driving his hands over his head, pinned to the ground. His whole body--belly, thighs, throat--was exposed, and she felt a tingling rush in her sex, wet and slick as she started moving over him again, rubbing her clit against the underside of his cock, taking her long, slow pleasure in it, against him, feeling his wrists shift and twist, trying to fight her, push against gravity and her own war-trained muscles and leverage and this felt far better than she’d ever admit--all of this: his powerlessness, the half-tamed strength of his body, writhing under her, the helpless, almost seeking way his mouth moved, and she felt that shift in her belly, where release went from being a nice idea to being a need, something wild, a desperate, spreading heat, and she moved faster, harder against him, bending low enough that her nipples grazed his chest, her breath panting just above his face, until her thighs juddered, first squeezing girth tight against his ribs before winging wide, feeling her whole body quiver against him, clit throbbing against the slickened skin.  

His body heaved underneath her, aroused pants, but he lay still, unable, or unwilling to move, and it was that surrender that aroused something in her, deeper than her body’s release.  She rocked forward, on her knees, hand fumbling between her thighs to press the head of his cock against her opening, rocking slowly back, taking him inside, a little more with each rock.  His body tensed, hips pressing back, and one hand flipped toward her before she pinned it down again…

...and stopped. She’d suspected it and now she knew: he was too big for her, stretching her wide, already bottoming out against the top of her.  If he moved, even gently…

But he didn’t, lying rigid, as if barely daring to breathe. As if he knew.  And as if he didn’t want to hurt her, aware of the ability to. All right, she thought, plan B.  Because she was going to get him off; that was part of the deal.

And even if it wasn’t it, she was going to make it one now, because it  was what she wanted: to watch his body writhe and twist, lost in orgasm. And she had a pretty good track record of getting what she wanted.

She squeezed down against him, tightening around the girth of it, just once, enough to pull a sort of gasp from his throat, before sliding off again, slowly, then pushing back. She released his hands, shifting to lie on one hip, between his legs, bringing his cock closer with one hand to flick around the head of it with her tongue.  She grinned, feeling him jump at the touches, hands clawing at the ground.  This was better, she thought, much better, and she smirked before taking the head into her mouth, her hand beginning a long, slow tempo, pulling up the shaft, her other, metal, hand spread flat over his belly.

His own hands slapped the ground, hips twisting. He was more than halfway gone from before, from feeling her own release, which still throbbed between her thighs, stirring with a vague, half-sated interest.  

He smelled like hot sand and salt and musk, burned off guzzoline, and she could taste the warm steel taste of her own fluids smeared on him, which drew a sort of purr from her throat, her hand twisting in its movements, picking up urgency.  

One of his hands nudged past her, and she let it take the place of hers.  He knew the rhythm of his own body better than she did--what he needed, what he wanted. And besides, it freed her own hand to explore.  So she let him take over pumping the shaft of his cock, while her own hand roamed, trailing up the back of his thighs, and down, grazing the wrinkled, weird looking flesh of his balls, one finger flirting with the split below.  He gave a guttural, gurgling sound, his thighs tensing around her, and she had just a few hints, a few seconds’ warning--the jump against the heel of her hand, the twitch of his belly under her metal fingertips, and she closed her throat, just as he began to spill over into his orgasm, taking it into her mouth, tasting the bleachy musk as he came, hard, shuddering spurts.  

She sucked harder, at the end, riding her tongue along the frenulum until his body gave the jerking twitch that was almost--almost--at the very edge where pleasure and pain mixed.  

She slithered forward, body sliding on his, and it was like he knew what she was doing, because his face was already turning toward hers, mouth seeking her own, tongue already splitting her kiss. His arms wrapped around her, clinging, hard, one around her back, one pressing her head close, so she couldn't break the kiss as he tasted himself in her kiss, tongue probing, sucking his semen out of her kiss, his body writhing under hers.  

He released her with a sigh, emptied, sated, arms falling limply off her, with one last, lazy lick of his lips, which Furiosa followed up with a little lick of her own, before pushing her palms down, lifting off him, swinging her leg over. She fished for her clothes, dressing quickly, and when she turned, he'd once again fallen into that post-coital sleep of his, heavy and lax. 

"Next round's on you," she whispered, bending to nuzzle against his ear. She reached for the belt still twisted loosely around his throat, but he'd rolled onto his side, cheek resting on the leather, the long end of it tangled in his fingers, as though finding some animal comfort in it.  

Fine, she thought, standing up. She could get it back later, and let whoever came to feed him in the morning make whatever he wanted of the scene. She couldn't wait to hear the gossip.

  
  



End file.
